Tide
by earth-dragon-1
Summary: Castiel comes clean in a laundromat. Not canon compliant. Started writing this before S9 aired.


Castiel has been a human for approximately four days, as best as he can tell.

For four days he has been: walking long miles, sleeping on the cold, hard ground, eating and drinking what he can dig out of trash cans or beg off of kind strangers, and relieving himself in the woods and in roadside bathrooms. It's been tedious, dangerous, demeaning, and heart-rending.

Castiel has had people shout and scream at him; one woman accused him of being a sexual deviant.

Mothers and fathers take one look at him and then grip their children tight to steer them away from the grizzled and dirty trench-coated man. Many people have muttered under their breath, called him 'homeless' or 'disgusting', and he supposed that was technically correct.

He's hated every single minute of it, but he's carried on with as much dignity as one could muster under the circumstances.

Today has been the most prosperous day Castiel has had since becoming fully human. He managed to beg a decent amount of money off several strangers, enough to buy himself some more used clothing from The Salvation Army, a second hand store he knows Dean and Sam often frequent.

Still, in his new humanity, Castiel supposes he is slightly sentimental, and he cannot bring himself to part with his old clothes. The suit is cheaply made, even he can tell that, and the trench coat is stained and ill-fitting; but they are his, they still have some use, and in a way they are beloved. He wants to keep them for as long as he can.

"You've really never done this before, pal?" the grey haired, old attendant asked him. Again.

"No," Castiel assured him, "I've never had a need."

"Had someone else to do it for ya, huh?"

Castiel has never required anyone else to do his laundry before. He's never even had laundry before, but he knows better than to try to explain his situation to the laundromat attendant. The man is showing him how to run the washing machine and clothes dryer. These are skills Castiel knows he will need for future reference, so he doesn't want to scare the man off.

"Yes, I suppose I'll have to learn how to do this for myself now."

"Well, it's not hard. Just sort the clothes by darks and lights, load them in the machine, add some detergent, and you're good to go. When the washing is done I'll come back and help you put them in the dryer."

Castiel thanked the man for his kindness, then he turned to the intimidating machine and did his best to follow the man's instructions.

He wished, so bitterly, that he didn't have to be there alone.

~~*~~

Forty five minutes later Castiel lifted the washing machine's lid and peered in at his wet clothes. The dirt and stains did appear to be gone but the fabric was covered by small bits of what looked like colored paper.

"All done?" the old man asked, coming to stand beside Castiel. He too looked inside the washing machine, "Oh, looks like you left something in your coat pocket."

"My pocket?" Castiel asked, confused. "You didn't say anything about my coat pockets."

"Yeah, sorry," the man apologized. "I should have told you to empty your pockets before putting your clothes in the washer." He reached inside and drew out a larger piece of the crumpled paper. He handed it to Castiel. "I hope this wasn't anything too important."

Castiel took the remains of the paper. It was a drawing made by Claire, Jimmy's young daughter.

He stared down at the smeared crayon visage of a dark haired, blue-eyed man, of Jimmy. Claire had drawn her father and given him the picture. Jimmy had intended to take the picture to his workplace and pin it up near his desk, but he never got the chance. Castiel had taken that chance away from him. What had poor Jimmy ever done but pledge service and loyalty? Now he was dead and his whole family suffered.

An unfamiliar, burning, prickling sensation started behind Castiel's eyes and drew a sharp breath as tears, human tears, began to trickle down his cheeks.

"Oh. Oh, hey, buddy. Come on." The old man patted him on the shoulder. "That was from your kid, huh? Your little one drew that?"

Castiel didn't know what to say so he said nothing.

"Look, I know it's none of my business, but I can tell you're in a tough spot right now. I don't know the details, and I'm not gonna ask about 'em. But you're obviously hurting."  
Castiel could not stop the sob that tore out of his throat. He clutched the ruined drawing tight in his fist as he slumped against the cold washing machine and slowly sank to the floor.

"My home is gone!" he cried. "My family is gone! It's all my fault! What have I done?"

The old man put an arm around Castiel's shoulders and pulled him into an awkward hug. "Oh son. I… I don't know. I don't know what's happened. But this can't be the end of everything. There's got to be somebody. There's got to be somewhere."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, there's got to be somebody out there, somewhere, family or friends. Somebody in this world cares about you. And you got to go to them. You got to find them."

Castiel sat up and looked the man in the eyes. "How do you know?"

"Well, there's got to be," the man declared. "You seem like a decent enough fella."

"But what if I'm not?" Castiel asked sadly.

"I don't think you're a bad man."

"You don't?"

"You're sitting on the floor of my laundromat, crying over a kid's ruined crayon picture. I don't think that's the kind of thing a bad guy would do," the man explained. "So yeah, I think there's gotta be somebody out there who cares about you, who would worry about you when you're gone."

The tightness in Castiel's chest began to loosen and the tears on his face began to dry.

"Maybe," he answered. "I hope so."

The old man struggled to his feet again and helped Castiel do the same. Together they loaded Castiel's wet clothes into the dryer.

"Thank you for helping me with… everything."

"It's no problem," the man assured him, smiling. "Listen, it's gonna be awhile before your clothes are out of the dryer. Is there anyone you should maybe call? You know, maybe let someone know where you are?"

Castiel sighed, "I don't have a telephone."

"I have a phone."

"But I don't have anymore money."

"I didn't ask if you did." The man smiled, pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and handed it to Castiel. "I mean it. Somebody out there is worried about you and they want you to come home. Call them and tell them where you are, let them know you're okay." The man walked away before Castiel could say another word about it.

Castiel only knew one phone number, so with shaking fingers he lifted the phone to punch it in, to call the one person who might still care about him, the one person who might still worry about him and miss him.

The phone rang once, twice, three times, before a gruff voice finally answered. "Yeah?"

Cas drew a shuddery breath. "Hello Dean."


End file.
